Gunpoint Politics
by Pyralis Anacreon
Summary: Dean Winchester was just eleven years old when the lights went out. Since then, things have changed a lot. Part One in the Singer Militia series.


Gunpoint Politics

* * *

Dean Winchester was just eleven years old when the lights went out. Since then, things have changed a lot.

* * *

Dean nudged Impala into a fast trot, one hand hanging down to settle the large crossbow hanging at his side. The horse itself was burdened with a sawed-off full of rock-salt shells, a pistol, a sword, three different kinds of knives, and a longbow. Sam, lagging behind a bit, was carrying much the same. They had a third horse, a stockier breed, tied to Dean's saddle with provisions and clean water.

"Sammy! I see road signs up ahead!" Dean called back to his brother.

"Should be a town in the next few miles." Sam said. "We should stop there, look around for another hunt. We must be far enough away from Bertrand and his militia by now."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Don't know about a sleepy little place like this having anything to hunt, though. Looks like mostly trees to me. Whose territory are we in, anyway?"

"Dad's map doesn't say exactly, but we're right on the edge of the Monroe Republic. Do you remember it?"

Dean scratched the stubble on the side of his jaw, waving off a few gnats. "Think we hunted a werewolf pack around here when you were, like, six. Just before the Blackout, in fact. And a few restless spirits here and there."

They rounded a bend in the road and came upon a small development of four or five houses, arranged in a circle. There were farm animals running around, and a few people outside who were slowly noticing Sam and Dean on the road.

"This isn't a town, Sam." Dean snarked. "It's a village. They don't even have an inn."

"Actually we do. But the innkeeper's out of town, so I'm running it. Who're you?" The woman came to stand with her arms crossed in front of Dean's horse. She was short, neither skinny nor fat. They did pretty well for themselves in this village, Dean thought. And she was brave; Impala was no pony, and Dean didn't exactly paint a picture of harmlessness.

He swung his leg over and dropped down to the mare's side, patting her shoulder as a warning. She could sometimes get frisky with new people, especially ones so blatantly hostile.

"I'm Dean, that's my brother, Sam. We're just passing through on our way to Chicago. Could you maybe put us up for a night or two? We've things to trade."

The woman's eyes went to the crossbow on Dean's right hip, and the machete on his left. She looked him in the eye. "If you know how to use that, our best hunter recently left to escort our innkeeper. One deer, four rabbits, or a dozen squirrels will buy you one night."

"Deal," Dean stuck out a hand and they shook. "Sammy, get your crossbow. We're going hunting."

The woman smiled, just a little.

* * *

With all the cars dead and everything electric still and dark, they had to walk to Bobby's house.

Sam tried complaining once, and was quickly shut up by Dean taking on half of his load and John saying that they had no other choice. The next morning John had procured a good-sized wagon, and Dean was packing everything into it.

Everything but a few of the guns. He kept one on himself, gave John his favorite shotgun and pistol, and solemnly handed Sammy a tiny little thing, small enough for his hands but powerful enough to keep anything human away from him.

They all walked, but Dean had control over the wagon and therefore the provisions, and sometimes he would herd Sam into the wagon, when his own feet were aching and he knew that Sam's had to be just as bad. He pulled the weight without comment.

John was always ahead. He killed three men in the first week, and after that took to keeping the shotgun in clear view.

They had been in northern Florida hunting down a water spirit when the lights went out, about as far from Bobby's as you could get without leaving the continental US. In Mississippi they passed a deserted ranch, about a month into the Blackout, and found a pasture of six horses grazing peacefully in the field. The horses neighed and came over to see them passing by, and John shaded his eyes and looked at the ranch house.

"We're stopping here for the night." He said, even though it was hardly even past noon.

"John?" Dean asked.

"Unload the supplies, see to you brother. I've got some things to look into."

Dean knew that meant he would scout out the perimeter and look for anyone nearby. If he found people... Well. He might kill them, and Dean had to face that reality. Sometimes you have to kill people.

The next morning, John hauled six saddles out of a little tack shed and showed Dean how to saddle a horse. He put Dean and Sam on an old, sturdy black gelding, loaded the supplies onto the back of a thick-looking pony, and mounted a lively roan himself, the other six horses tied into a string along behind him.

"From now on, boys, we'll ride." He said, the first hint of amusement in his voice in a month.

Dean spent the rest of the day grinning, and he wouldn't even regret the soreness in his legs the next morning.

At the back of the string of horses lagged a tall, rounded mare, her coat and mane pitch black, her flanks swollen with the young horse inside.

They arrived at Bobby's two weeks later and two horses less. John had traded one away for ammo, and the other had died in Montana during an ambush that didn't end well for their attackers.

John had always taught Dean how to track and survive in the wild, but it took on new meaning after everything went dark. Being able to track a deer in the forest was suddenly more important than being able to track a spirit through the records in the town library, and it was vital for their survival that Dean be very, very good at it.

By the time they pulled the horses up in front of Bobby's house and John was banging on the door, Dean could skin a rabbit three different ways like he'd been doing so all his life, and none of them had gone hungry for even a night.

* * *

They found the trail of a herd of deer within the hour, and tracked it for half a mile through the forest. Finally Dean held up his hand in a fist, signaling Sam to stop, and with his knees soundlessly pressed Impala forward. The horse went slowly and silently, trained specifically for this kind of work. There was an impressive stag just up ahead, working on the grass determinedly.

Dean looked back at Sam and flashed him the signs for a flanking maneuver. Sam backed his horse away and moved it around to the stag's other side. It's head came up twice, ears flicking to catch the sounds around it, but it only took a few steps forward and started grazing again.

Finally, there came the whistle of a bird's call, perfectly mimicked. Dean whistled back and watched the deer's head come up again, and he started counting down.

At zero, two bolts came from two directions. Sam's, a little faster, took it solidly in the side, while Dean's lodged a few inches deep in its flank, nonetheless effectively crippling it.

The stag crumpled to the ground.

Dean was first to it, so he drew his machete and bashed it in the head with the hilt, killing it on the first blow. Sam appeared at his side, reaching for the antlers.

"This one's really nice. Think we can trade the antlers for something?"

"Maybe. Some of those tips would make real nice arrowheads. I want to keep the tendons for stitches, though. We'll just give them the meat."

"Doesn't look like they need it much, though."

"Maybe some. Anyway, it's a warm place to sleep with real beds and a roof over our heads. How often do we get to say that?"

"True. Help me load this thing up on the pony."

They tied the stag onto the pony and mounted their own horses again. Dean set off in the lead, holding the pony's halter in his left hand to keep it calm with the smell of blood hanging around it. At the village, they dismounted and Sam slung the stag over his shoulders, trying to not let it bleed on his leather coat.

Dean looked around, realizing that he had no idea which house was supposed to be the inn. There didn't seem to be anyone outside anymore, this late in the day. The setting sun cast powerful yellow rays between the houses and the fence slats.

"We're back!" Dean shouted.

"Dean!" Sam scolded, although he wasn't sure what he would have done differently.

The woman from before opened the door on the closest house. "So you are." she said warily, eying the stag on Sam's shoulders. "I didn't think you would be. You must be some hunters, to find a stag like that so fast."

Dean gave her his best smile. "Thanks, but it was easy. You've got some naive deer around here."

The woman said nothing, only opened the door wider for them to come inside. When Sam hesitated at the threshold, she eyeballed the blood still leaking sluggishly from it and said, "You'd better take that around back. I assume one of you boys knows how to skin and butcher it?"

"Yes ma'am," Sam nodded. He took the deer around the wraparound porch and found a wooden table in the back, already stained with blood from previous kills. There were a few tools stowed away underneath the table, but Sam preferred to use his own.

Dean came out the back of the house as he was finishing making the first cuts through the deer's pelt.

"Dude, I just got the walk-through. They've managed to hook up a waterfall system here. The water's cold, but, shower!"

Sam grunted as he finished sawing through the base of one antler with his serrated knife, breaking it at the last piece. "Everything look good?"

"Yep, all on the up and up. I'm gonna go get the horses settled in, they don't have a stable here but they've got a shed that's mostly empty. You want anything from your bags?"

"Whetstone." Sam said, flipping the knife's dulling edge to show Dean. "And you could use a shave."

"I don't know Sammy, I'm thinking of growing a beard." Dean grinned. Sam knew he was joking; Dean found it easier to keep trimmed than to keep a beard clean.

"Yeah, sure. Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean called fondly.

* * *

Bobby took custody of the horses, taking them to a shed in the back of his house, muttering about cars all the while. John stayed out front with Sam and Dean, standing uncomfortably on Bobby's porch as they waited for him.

"Well?" Bobby demanded, turning around. "I ain't doing this by myself. You boys are gonna take care of your own damn horses."

Dean waited for John's nod, and then took the horses' leads from Bobby, solemnly handing one to Sammy.

"You know how to wipe 'em down, right?" Bobby said. Dean nodded. "Then get to it. There's a stepladder in the shed for Sam."

By the time they were done wiping down the horses, it was getting dark out and Bobby had appeared in the circle of cars they were using as a corral, holding a lantern.

"Make sure you feed 'em, and then come inside. Your dad and I have some things to talk about with you."

Dean nodded again, getting the horse feed from their packs, and grinned at Sammy. He was going to be in a grown-up conversation with Dad and Bobby! Maybe they'd noticed what good care he'd been taking with Sam and the horses. He'd even checked their hooves for stones every time they stopped.

Sammy refused to take his hand, insisting that he was old enough to walk alone, so they walked back to Bobby's house together and Dean found himself getting more nervous with every step. What if he'd done something wrong? John would have to fix it, and he wouldn't say anything but he'd just keep looking at Dean, as if wondering what he was going to do with such a screw up.

By the time they reached the house, Dean was about eighty percent certain that he'd somehow screwed something up, and a hundred percent determined to fix it.

But John didn't look angry when he and Sammy entered the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, his hands in his hair, kneading at his temples. There was an open bottle of beer in front of him.

"Dean, Sam." He said when they came it. "It's becoming pretty clear that no one knows when the power's coming back on... if it ever will. We have to act for the worst case scenario: that the power will never come back."

John fell silent for too long, taking a drink from the bottle and putting it down just a little too hard. "What does that mean?" Dean asked finally.

"It means we're going to have to go back out, find the other hunters, and bring them back here. We were smart to get the horses. They'll be valuable. We need to go out and get more, get more supplies, get supplies for growing our own food and livestock. We'll need to hit up some libraries and research how to keep up a farm. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

"What can I do?" Was the first thing Dean asked. It was the right question, because John actually smiled at him.

"You can help me. And you can keep Sammy safe, like always."

* * *

That night, by the moon and two candles, they ate a hearty venison stew with the innkeeper, her husband, two kids, and the young couple who also lived there. The conversation was subdued at best, and Dean suspected it was because of their presence.

At the beginning, the innkeeper went around the table introducing everyone. He'd already forgotten most of their names, but he remembered that the innkeeper's name was Missouri and her kids were Justin and Daisy, Justin the older of the two. Dean had always liked kids, ever since taking care of Sammy when he was younger.

When dinner was over Dean volunteered to help clean up the dishes with Missouri, leaving Sam to retreat to their room. When they were in the house's mudroom, scrubbing at the plates in murky water inside a big metal tub, Dean considered his options and led with, "So I might have lied a little about what we're doing here."

He could feel Missouri tensing up beside him, saw her grip the carving knife she'd used on the venison under the water.

"Not like that!" Dean exclaimed, trying to get it all out at once, to stop her from plunging the knife towards his vital organs. "We are going to Chicago, but we're looking for our dad. He went missing a few weeks ago, he missed a check-in. We're trying to trace his steps and track him down. We think he might have come this way."

Missouri's hand loosened around the knife, and she looked up to meet Dean's eye. "You're good men, Dean Winchester. You and your brother both. But this is a hard world and I know what you're willing to do to survive in it, I know what I've done to survive in it. The definition of a good man has changed."

Dean's stomach soured around that good venison stew and a wave of icy cold washed over him. "I never told you our last name."

"There are a lot of things you never told people. That doesn't mean they don't know 'em. Your daddy never passed through this town, but you're right to head to Chicago. That's where your road is taking you."

"Who are you?" Dean asked, for the time being ignoring everything else she was saying.

"My name is Missouri. I knew your father... before the Blackout. I am a psychic. I see the truth of things. Even you, Dean Winchester."

And from the look she gave him... he doubted he wanted to know his truth.

"Can you tell us where to find him?" Dean asked.

Missouri shook her head. "It is not within my power to find a man who does not want to be found. And if it were, I still would not do it. He has a right to run away, even if he shouldn't be exercising it."

"If you're really psychic, you'll know what me and Sam do when we pass through a town like yours." Dean challenged.

"You ask about cold spots and mysterious disappearances. You look for monsters to hunt. Sometimes, you run into other hunters and trade tips. Mostly you just wander."

"You got anything like that around here?" Dean asked.

Missouri smiled bitterly. "The only monsters you can find 'round here are the Monroe Militia. You missed them by a few days, but feel free to hunt them down, Lawman."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. They'd been called that in a few places, where the people had discovered that monsters did exist. Dean didn't like it. He didn't feel all that wholesome.

"That's not what we do." He explained. "Just the inhuman monsters. The human ones... that's for regular people to take care of."

Missouri flared up. "Regular people? You think hunters are better than us normals, us regular people? You don't share our problems? You're above our petty issues? The ground don't touch your feet, Winchester, death just rolls over you, you don't have to sleep nor eat nor stop for anything that ain't evil incarnate. Is that right? Have I summed it up for you?"

Dean held up his hands, trying to protest, but she steamrolled right over him.

"You and your brother have power. You have the weapons and the know-how, yes, but that's not all you have. There's angels watching over you. You're blessed lucky, even when it don't seem like it. And you want to reserve that power for nothing more than a wendigo, a poltergeist, a werewolf? Those human monsters are worse than any supernatural beast. Used to be the police took care of that, but they're gone and the militia does jack shit, the militia's the problem. So who's left? You. You hunters. So stop whining and do your damn jobs. Save people. Hunt monsters. Even the human ones."

At the end of her long speech, Missouri exhaled wildly and stormed back into the house, pushing past Sam who was standing blindsided in the doorway.

"If you made me wake my kids I'll string you up." Missouri snapped, and then she was gone.

Dean and Sam stared at each other for a long time.

"Dude." Dean said. "I can't tell if she's hot or scary when she's angry."

* * *

Two days later, they had scoured the country around Bobby's house, noting down the location of possible useful supplies, taking stock of the world. People were still panicking, still starving.

"We don't owe them anything," Bobby and John agreed with each other. "They've never been grateful to us at the end of a hunt. We're better off separate."

So even though they had enough food to keep all four of them and the horses alive for years, they didn't help.

On his scouting runs, quick trips alone, Dean took food. He left it at the doors of houses with children. He was sorry that he couldn't do more.

More hunters started showing up at Bobby's house. Some of them had a horse or two, most had supplies, and one had an entire string of seven horses. They got to work on a real stable, using a lot of scrap. The paddock remained as it was: cars turned on their sides and the gaps between stuffed with scrap metal, but the whole thing got moved over the course of a day into a far more grassy field, right on the edge of Bobby's land.

"Suppose we're gonna have to get some irrigation through here," Bobby said, surveying his land. "If we want to grow enough to feed all these damn hunters."

When the raiders tried Bobby's house, they found it far too well protected, but it was also a wake-up call to the hunters. They set about building a perimeter fence, establishing patrols, and sent out riders on horses to gather up all of the weapons caches hidden around the United States, and bring them back to base. Six months into the Blackout, Bobby's land had become a fortress. There were new houses going up every other day, and they were running out of manpower to keep the walls safe and the land farmed.

The nearest town was full of people just barely scraping by, hit by raiders every time they passed through.

John and Dean went down to talk to the town's mayor.

"You're from that outpost up by old Singer's place?" the mayor, Richard Anderson, asked.

"Run by Bobby Singer himself." John nodded. "And we've run into a problem. We've got the men and the guns to keep the place safe, but that doesn't leave enough men to work the fields. We've still got plenty of food, but we're thinking long-term. And there's not a single farmer among us. So If you people really are just looking to live peacefully, we'd like to propose an alliance of sorts."

"Like what?"

"Like your people would come and live in the houses we've built, help us build more, farm the fields, and give us what crops we need to stay fed and healthy, and in return we'll protect you."

"That sounds like we'd be giving quite a lot and getting not a lot in return."

"Sounds like it, right? But what you're getting is peace of mind. No more kids dying because some scum are too hungry and impatient to get their own food. You'd be able to raise your families in safety, and all you'd be doing with us is the same thing you're doing here, but safer."

Anderson seemed to be thinking about it. Dean knew that he was already hooked, and had been since John mentioned safety for his children.

"This is my boy, Dean." John put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean had turned twelve just a month ago, and was supremely proud of this fact. "I've been training him to defend himself. I can do the same for you and your kids, and anyone who doesn't want to fight doesn't have to. That's the world I'm offering you. One where peace is an option."

Anderson had decided. "I'll talk to the families, I'll try to convince them to come with you, but I'm in. How are we going to get up there?"

"In four days, we'll come back down here with wagons and horses. You can load up whatever will fit, and we'll come back if one trip isn't enough."

"Okay. In four days I'll have everyone who's coming ready to go."

Dean and John went back to the compound, and four days later returned with five large wagons in tow.

It took three trips over three days. The entire town was moving.

* * *

Sam and Dean moved out the next morning, kicking their horses into a brisk trot for the first part of the day. Chicago wasn't far, but the terrain wasn't exactly flat, either. They arrived in the evening, and dismounted to lead the horses through the crowded city. People moved out of their way, always conscious of the weapons both men were carrying.

"Hey, do you know where we can find good stables around here?" Sam asked a man trying to sell his morning's catch.

"Well, we don't get many horses 'round here. I think the only one nearby is in the Grand. It's a bar, thataway for the most part. Three blocks down, two over. Big hotel. Can't miss it." the fisherman said. Sam thanked him, and offered up a line of rolled sinew, which the fisherman took with big eyes. He then forced a small-ish fish on them, and they were off.

"I was gonna use that." Dean said to Sam when they were out of earshot.

Sam shrugged. "His lines looked close to breaking. I think he needed it more."

Dean huffed, but let it drop.

Sam bitched a little about having to stay outside and hold the horse's reins while Dean went in to see the Grand's barkeeper, but Dean was used to ignoring that.

Inside the bar was dark, the various patrons each holding their own soft conversation to create a dull background noise. In the center of the room was an oval bar, and standing behind it the barkeeper holding an intense conversation with a party of four: two women, a young man, and a heavy-set man.

Dean stepped up to the bar, and tried to break into that conversation. It looked like resolving it was going to take a while, so he wanted to get his business done quickly.

"Hey, buddy, I just need to know about stabling my horses." Dean said, leaning over the bar.

The man didn't even turn fully around, just shot blind frown over his shoulder. "Kinda busy here, wait your turn."

Dean backed off a little, and waited, trying not to overhear the conversation. It wasn't his problem, no matter what that crazy woman Missouri might have said.

Finally the barkeeper turned around to face Dean, obviously dismissing the group, and got as far as "Now what did you need?" before the young woman behind him shouted, "He's my brother, and your nephew! Don't you care about family at all?"

"Stables round back, underground, take the alley." The barkeeper said, trying to ignore her.

"Thanks, man, but you should take care of your family first." Dean nodded at the girl. "The only thing you can count on."

The barkeeper snorted his doubtfulness, and wearily went back to his conversation with the girl.

Dean went back outside still trying to put the incident out of his head, and Sam of course noticed.

"What happened in there?" he asked.

"Barkeeper was having a family dispute, it sounded like. The stable's in the parking garage underneath the Grand."

He took the pack horse's lead and trusted Impala to follow, guiding them down the alley. There were almost no people back here, which made it pretty obviously strange when the young man from inside the bar came bolting past them. Dean saw him take a considering look at Impala, wondering if he could jump on and steal it.

"She'll kill you, boy." Dean swore, staring the young man dead in the eye.

He took off running again, and was gone.

"Wonder what that was about?" Sam said.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe that argument got ugly?"

They got the horses stabled and went back inside to see about payment, knowing that both Impala and Sam's horse had been trained to accept no other rider than the two brothers.

Dean opened the back door just in time for the young woman from before to come bursting out of it, carrying a crossbow that she was desperately trying to reload. Behind her were three militia men, each with swords in their hands.

Dean took half a second to aim and brought his own crossbow up, fired at the man on the right at the same time Sam took out the one on the left. Dean had slapped another bolt onto the crossbow and was about to pull the trigger, but another bolt landed home right in the center man's chest, dropping him like a stone.

Dean looked down to see the girl crouched between him and Sam, her own crossbow braced against her shoulder. It had been her bolt.

Dean grinned. He always liked the tough ones. "Nice shot. I'm Dean, that's my brother Sam."

The girl just looked at him for a long moment, panting, and finally said, "Charlie."

* * *

Like a lot of the compound's children, it was part of Dean's job to tend the horses every day. Unlike a lot of them, he was in charge.

"Billy, Charger's stall is nowhere near clean enough." Dean snapped. "Steven, Katie, less hay in those two stalls. We're trying to make this last."

Billy shot him a dark look, but started cleaning the stall again, more thoroughly this time. Katie went right back with half the hay, but Steven stood defiantly in place.

"Why do we have to listen to you?" Steven asked, his arms crossed. He was fourteen, almost fifteen, and resented being told what to do by a kid younger than him.

Dean sneered. "Because I know what I'm doing, and you don't. Not yet."

John had briefed Dean on the things a commander needs to do in order to keep control of his troops. He had to let them see him working harder than any of them. He could never show weakness. And when threatened, he had to reinforce his own authority. He couldn't go crying to an adult.

The stable, still smelling of fresh wood overlaid with the smell of live animals, was eerily quiet as the other kids working went still, aware that something was happening.

Dean put his back up ramrod straight, and left his arms at his sides even when they wanted to cross.

"I think it should be the oldest kid in charge." Steven said quietly.

"What are you gonna do about that?" Dean asked, just as quiet. He knew how this would have to go, but he had a feeling that it had to be Steven who started it. It couldn't be him.

"I'll fight you for it. And then they'll see that a little kid doesn't know how to do anything." Steven put his fists up and moved closer to Dean, circling a bit. Dean didn't move except to keep Steven in front of him.

Steven almost psyched out. He saw Dean standing there, not defending or attacking, and hesitated. He wondered what Dean was doing.

And then one of his friends cheered him on, a shattering encouragement in the silence of the stable, and he jumped in with both feet, swinging wildly at Dean's face.

He missed by a mile.

Dean ducked the first blow, and didn't allow Steven to have another. The older boy had weight on him, but nothing else. Dean was faster, stronger, and he knew what to do with his body in a fight.

He swept at Steven's knees with one foot, causing one to collapse, and followed through the spin with a blow from the side of his fist to the other boy's skull, right below the ear. When he listed to the side, partially upright but ears ringing, Dean brought his knee up into Steven's nose, breaking it smoothly.

Steven tried to curl up on his side, around his bleeding nose, but Dean aimed another kick perfectly at his kidney, which caused him to spasm straight again for just a moment, long enough for Dean to pin him on his stomach. Dean gathered the other boy's arms behind him, painfully high up his back, and put one knee and all his weight to keep him there.

He put one hand on the back of Steven's neck and leaned into it to ask in his ear, "Are we done?"

Steven was sobbing, dripping blood and tears into the stable's dirt floor. He babbled, nodding.

"Good," Dean said simply, and stood back up in one swift movement. He surveyed the other kids, watching with wide eyes. "Get back to work." He ordered, and they scampered.

Sam appeared at his side, looking up at Dean silently. Dean smiled a little, an apology, and nodded at Steven, who had only curled up into a ball and was trying to stop crying.

Sam went to him, helped him stand up, and took him to the hunter's infirmary.

Dean turned away and went back to his own work, swallowing heavily a few times to keep the bile down.

* * *

Another man came running down the long hallway on the other side of the door, and both brothers raised their crossbows again to shoot until the girl jumped up, exclaiming, "Don't shoot! He's my uncle!"

The uncle stopped short, raising his hands and a bloody sword, saying, "Who're your new friends, Charlie?"

"Sam and Dean, they just helped me with the militia."

"Well thanks." He stopped addressing Sam and Dean, and focused entirely on Charlie, it seemed. "Alright. I'll help you find your brother."

The girl smiled widely. "Thank you. I know we can do it."

"This is touching and all," Dean broke in, "But what the hell is going on, and why did we just shoot some militia?"

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "They were sent to kidnap my Uncle Miles, like they took my brother. I'm sorry you had to get involved."

"No trouble." Dean gave her an appreciative once-over, and when she blushed figured he had a shot.

When he looked back, Miles was glaring a slow death at him. But then his face changed, his eyes narrowing, his grip clenching around his sword. "What did you say your names were?"

"Why?" Sam asked, finger resting on the crossbow trigger.

"What's wrong?" Charlie asked Miles.

"Sam and Dean, was it?" Miles said. "Get away from them, Charlie."

"Why?"

"Yeah, Uncle Miles. Why? We aren't hurting anybody." Dean knew they'd been recognized, unusual so far into Monroe territory. Which meant this man had to be have met them before, but where...

"Matheson." Dean hissed.

"Winchester." Miles returned.

"What the hell is going on?" Charlie asked, looking between them.

* * *

Dean whooped with laughter as he spurred Impala on faster, leaving Sammy in his dust. Steven, the other person in their three-man patrol, was just a little farther back on his sturdy pony.

Sam was still going through a growth spurt, ungainly with his newly long limbs on his horse. He was also falling behind in their race, but that would always happen. Impala was a warhorse, tall and built with thick ropes of muscle, trained to fight viciously with her hooves, and fast on her feet too.

Dean was turned around to look at Sam, so it was Impala that saved them from galloping right into the other party.

They were wearing Monroe Militia uniforms, that was what Dean saw first, and then he saw the old rifles they had aimed at him. He ducked low over Impala's neck, praying that they weren't good shots and immediately thankful that he and his father had always insisted that even the lightest patrols go out fully armored. Impala's body was covered with old metal from Bobby's scrap yard, melted down and beaten into horse-shapes.

The bullets pinged off of her armor, what few actually hit after she had reared defensively, presenting a moving target. Dean brought her back down to earth with a tug of the reins and kept her there. Sometimes she forgot that her belly was not armored as the rest of her.

Dean beat a hasty retreat from the Monroe soldiers, securing some cover behind a steep hill and a boulder. He dismounted, and found that Sam and Steven were already hiding with him.

"Thanks for all that backup." Dean snarked.

"S'what you get for getting so far ahead." Sam said simply, poking his head over the boulder. He ducked quickly as two shots rang out. "They're using old-time rifles. Okay aim, slow reload, weak bullets."

"Yes, I saw that when I almost got up-close and personal with six of them."

"There's only six of them. Small patrol for Monroe militia."

"No, there's seven. Only six of them were pointing guns though. I'd be willing to guess that the other guy is their commander. We take him out, they'll have no idea what to do."

Sam was reluctant. "We've got some good cover here. We could probably make it back to base before they even realized we weren't behind here anymore. We should go get backup."

Dean swore. "They'd get away! Look, Sammy, we've got the better guns. And look at those horses! George would kill to breed those into our stock."

"George would have to kill. They aren't just going to hand them over." Sam said.

"I have an idea." Steven spoke up.

They both turned to look at him. Steven had been a quiet boy after that fight in the stable, but he was loyal to Sam and animal-wary around Dean. His easy-going temperament was the reason Sam and Dean usually chose him to patrol with them.

Steven shifted under Dean's gaze, and tried to look only at Sam. "I'll go back to base on my horse and get backup, while you keep them here."

Dean and Sam looked at each other and nodded.

"Sounds like a plan," Dean said, smiling just a little. Steven looked away from the praise. "Alright, Sammy, how we gonna hit them?"

Dean wound up staying behind their cover while Sam crept around the bottom of the hill, into the edge of the copse of trees the Monroe militia were hiding in. Dean stood just within sight, firing his own rifle every time he liked his shot. One man went down, dead, and another was at least wounded. They kept firing every time he stepped just a little too far out, and he was running out of bullets fast.

"Damn it, Sammy, where's the signal." Dean growled, reloading again. The other militia was silent, probably reloading as well. A lone bird called out.

Dean swung onto Impala's back and charged over the crest of the hill. The response was telling - for a long ten seconds, almost an eternity, there was nothing but the thunder of her hooves and her deep, even breaths. Then the militia fired, all four at once.

Coming head-on, Dean didn't have a chance in hell of dodging, but he didn't need to. Two of them missed, their shots thrown off by Sam slamming their heads together with his dual fighting clubs, probably caving their skulls. The other two pinged off of the horse's armor, and then Dean was in the copse of trees, slamming one soldier with the butt of his rifle, slashing at the other with a long machete.

It was over in seconds.

The commander had Sammy by the neck, and was pointing a pistol at his temple.

"I don't want to hurt this kid," the man was saying. "But I will if you don't drop that rifle."

Dean wasn't hearing anything but the rush of blood in his ears, the red and all-consuming fury in his head. He raised the rifle and centered it between the man's eyes, and when the man cocked the pistol's hammer back it sounded like a gunshot in the dead silence.

Ice washed over Dean, not killing the fire but freezing it, for the time being.

"What's your name?" Dean asked.

"Miles." The man said.

"I'm Dean. That's my brother, Sam. He's twelve. You got a brother, Miles?"

The man ignored the question, tried to say, "Let me go and I won't - "

Dean spoke over him. "I don't know if you do. But I'm going to find out. You kill my brother, Miles, and I'm going to catch you. I'm going to get the name of every person you've ever loved from your head, and I'm going to find them, and tell them what you did here, and kill them. I'll make you watch me do it. I'll burn 'child-killer' into your forehead and your hands and let you go. That's what we do with men like you in Singer Republic."

"That's a nice speech, but I still have your brother." Miles said.

"I know. I'm going to drop my rifle, just like you said. You're going to let my brother go. I'll count to five, and then I'm going to do my absolute best to make you a dead man."

"Honest, at least." Miles said.

Dean dropped the rifle on the ground in response.

Miles shoved Sam at Dean and took off running. Dean didn't count, but it took him almost five seconds to collect the rifle and aim it, and by then Miles was somehow gone. Vanished.

Backup arrived, led by Steven on his pony. Dean dispatched all but one of them to search for the man called Miles, and made the last one lead his own horse and Sam's home. Sam rode with Dean on Impala, shaking every once in a while.

"I'm fine, Dean," he kept saying. "I'm not a baby. I shouldn't have been caught like that."

Dean wrapped a protective arm around him, and swore to protect him. Not the first time, and not the last.

Later, Dean would find out that that had been Miles Matheson, Commanding General of the Monroe Militia, with a scouting party to check out the defenses of the neighboring Singer Republic. He would find out that vengeance was impossible without a full-out war that they weren't prepared for.

Later, Miles would learn from a spy that that young man, barely out of boyhood, was Dean Winchester. Heir apparent to the Singer Republic. He would go to Sebastian, and tell him about the fire-red insanity in Dean when it came to his brother.

Neither of them would ever forget it.


End file.
